Wednesday, January 30, 2008
That Old Familar Whiff.
01/30/2008
To be frank life at Camping Les Pines east of Montreux holds no pleasure. The girls have rented something called “a trailer” for me from the proprietor M. Huguenot, who assures me that this is the very top five star spot in the season, however now I am cheek by jowl with several noisy Albanian families and a small group of Peter Hain’s parliamentary researchers who seem to have chosen this odd time of year to holiday in this god forsaken spot. The Albanians attract regular nocturnal visits for the constabulary asking for “D Permits” and look suspiciously at my old red driving licence as presumably Trollaigh does not translate well into the local lingo. Each night the cops remove a few anxious Albanians in the paddy wagon although Peter Hain’s lot seems to be immune from scrutiny following the sneaky transfer of a small battered attaché case to Le Patron, M. Huguenot. Routine visits to the ablution facilities, which look uncannily like a recycled German de-lousing block, fail to cheer although the place has rekindled an old memory. My dear Mater having produced a fine crop of sons, was one of those females who was completely starved of the company of her own sex, occasional frustration with the habits of the all male Tower of Glen Trollaigh caused some well aimed blows for equality, one such was the post WW2 introduction of Airwick, many of you may recall the small bottle of noxious green stuff whose industrial strength aroma was spread into the air via a fat wick and when strategically placed close to the kazie was supposed to overcome the normal heavy pong of the said all male society. Whether it worked of not one was never sure, however imagine my surprise some sixty years on to find the Airwick alive and well at Camping Les Pines all be it in jolly yellow hues and dispensing a doubtless carcinogenic whiff of alpine meadows.
Sitting alone in a metal box staring at pine trees and grubby Albanians is not much fun so following the purchase of sturdy boots and an alpenstock I have been making use, weather permitting of highly efficient Swiss public transport to seek out some vestige of hedonistic comfort. These rambles have taken me to Chateaux d’Aix and two discoveries; Firstly, an Internet Café where I have filed my tax return and pled with the girls to raise the ridiculously tight limit on my credit card, and where the web has also brought the depressing news that the Yoghurt Knitters have set up a Wildlife Camp outside Oban Sheriff Court and are burning effigies of “The Bloody Baron” and more hurtfully the diamond T flag, so no relief in sight. Secondly, that The Hotel des Sport supplies a passable G&T in a civilised bar where one can also slip away to a clean loo with warm air wafting around ones ankles, fresh fluffy towels and a piping hot shower all without an Airwick in sight! Yours aye from the Café des Internet, Chateaux d’Aix, Archie, still The Baron Trollaigh.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Oh Bollocks
01/24/2008
As it has been such turmoil I tend to forget that many of you will not have learnt of the fate of yours truly over the past few weeks. It all started innocently enough with a sudden summons on January the fourth from Bruxelles to meet with Madam European Advisor to discuss this year’s tobacco farming strategy for North Argyll and Glen Trollaigh in particular. Tanya’s Taxi swept me to the aerodrome and BA Business Class, courtesy of you dear taxpayers had me unpacking at the European Advisor’s modest Chateaux for a pre meeting dinner to set one up for the rigours of planning one’s own subsidy on the morrow. It turns out that Herr European Advisor is an impoverished aristo of some sort until capturing the heart of my EA who was then willing and able to reverse the impoverishing pronto. The dinner was a huge success with dollops of entente cordial, the highlight being an invitation to hunt boar after the fifteenth August 2008 as the EU in all its wisdom have allowed French farmers carte blanche to slay wild boar when M le Fermiere decide that piggy numbers may be a threat to almost anything from crops to water supplies. A policy not allowed in Blighty where the clipboards have declared the Beastly Boars to be a “most endangered species” or some such bollocks and one needs a double PhD and a bobble hat to even glimpse the trotter prints in Epping Forest or wherever.
Dear readers you will be only too aware that good company can cause some Baronial over enthusiasm and so it proved at this eurocratic freebie, when spurred on by the Boar Hunt I suggested an Argyll Beaver Hunt. My innocent, though Chateaux Ycem fuelled, suggestion was unfortunately overheard by some totally wet Home Counties MEP whose Blackberry almost melted when it instantly relayed my guffaws to Scottish Natural Heretics who thinly disguised as The Edinburgh Zoo are pushing through the illegal “re-wilding” of Euro Beavers in West Argyll, dishonestly supported by a “public consultation” whose results have been spun by some failed Blairite PR has-been. At the end of the day a warrant for the arrest of The Baron Trollaigh was issued for “Wildlife Crime” and one is on the run. My EA was sporting enough to provide a helicopter over to non EU Montreux and in that pretty spot I am now a fugitive moving from caravan site to spartan B&B with only the odd visit undercover of darkness to a chum’s Swiss second home hopefully with maid service and laundry. Thank God for our girl’s swift return to The Tower of Glen Trollaigh waving a Power of Attorney (that I do not recall signing) and taking the reins on the home front. David my tame QC, between blamming at Sandringham claims that things should blow over soon although my Adam & Co gold card has been declined twice and communication with the rest of society has been limited. Things look bleak, yours from The Palace Hotel hot tub, Archie, still The Baron Trollaigh.